


stop and smell the roses

by johnllauren



Series: hetalia rarepair week 2020 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Historical Hetalia, Kissing, M/M, Other characters mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24711691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnllauren/pseuds/johnllauren
Summary: Spain is looking at the scenery instead of England when he says, “I’d stay here forever.”“Of course you would, talking about the pretty trees and how nice the breeze feels on your skin, or whatever,” England says, though even he can’t tell if his tone is mocking or fond. Perhaps both.“Mm, probably.” He’s smiling. “And I’d have plenty of time to convince you of its beauty, too.”
Relationships: England/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: hetalia rarepair week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786603
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	stop and smell the roses

**Author's Note:**

> written for hetalia rarepair week 2020!  
> day 1, prompt: flowers  
> (set vaguely in the early 18th century)

They meet in the forest.

There are plenty of forests, here, in the new world, and there’s no denying they’re beautiful. It’s spring, which manifests itself here as lush trees and hot days with soft, cool evenings. Evenings that are perfect for clandestine meetings in the as-of-yet unexplored forests. 

“How’s the boy?” Spain asks, his tone almost eerily neutral. 

So they were still making awkward small talk. 

“He’s… a bit rough around the edges.” England responds. 

None of them know exactly how to handle child nations. One of them would get saddled with bringing them up, but they would inevitably begin to have ideas of their own, and that was usually when hell would begin to break loose. There are two of them here, and England has been forced to handle one of them - a young boy named Alfred, too rambunctious and far too trusting for his own good. 

“And the other one?” The other one’s name is Matthew: another little boy who bears resemblance to Alfred, though he’s much more mellow.

“Still with France.” 

“Pity.” 

“What, did you want me to have both?” 

Spain shrugs. “It would make it easier for me: I’d only have one country to take over to get both of them.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Are we still playing this game? Conquests?” 

“Arthur, we’re always playing the game.” 

(They almost have lives, here: England can pretend he’s taking care of the kid because he wants to, because of something like love, can act like he’s just as optimistic and new to life as the rest of the people he’s traveled with. It’s all a lie, of course, something that will leave as soon as he leaves, but perhaps he needs to revel in it a little while longer. He wonders if Spain feels the same.) 

England sighs. “I know.” 

“Would you like to abandon the game for tonight?” Spain asks. 

The sunset peers in through the few gaps in the foliage, and half of Spain’s face is illuminated by the setting sun: soft, orange, lovely. The light catches his eye and it sparkles almost unrealistically, mischievously. Perhaps it’s just been too long since they’ve seen each other, because England’s head is practically spinning. 

“I’d love to,” England says. 

Spain smiles, inviting. “Well, come closer.” 

England obliges. His steps are muffled by grass, and he nearly trips on a root, but then he is in front of Spain again, only inches away from him. Spain reaches forward and takes England’s hands in his. 

“Ever the romantic,” England rolls his eyes as Spain brings his hand to his lips, kissing it gently. 

“What, would you rather I not be as gentle?” Spain asks. In his eyes, England can see the vague remains of the passion, the anger they bared for each other during their days of being pirates. He grins. 

“No, no, I like this just fine.” 

Their new environment was different. There was war and conflict, conquests, yes, but something about it was so separate from life at home. For the first time in a very long while England breathes air that feels _fresh,_ feels like he isn’t bound to the limits of his existence. It is not the environment for rough, it’s the place for soft touches and secret meetings in the forest while the sun sets. 

“It’s been too long,” Spain says, the smile evident in just his voice. 

“And how long is too long?” 

“Did you think I was counting?” 

“Hm, I was hoping one of us was,” England responds. 

The conversation flows almost too easily here, free from the shackles of formal clothing and entourages. They’re both wearing commoner’s clothes, and Spain looks dashing in it anyway. Even England is grinning like a fool, the feeling of reunion overpowering anything else. 

“Oh, kiss me,” Spain says, taking another step forward and England’s jaw in his hands.

The kiss is gentle and soft. It doesn’t taste like the salty sea air anymore. Spain’s hands stay on England’s jaw like it is something special, and England places his hands at Spain’s hips. It’s like a dance, though without the social pressure and prying eyes. When they break apart, neither of them quite want to, and they press their foreheads together. 

“How long do you have?” England asks.

Spain makes a face. “Not long. I’ve got to be back on the ship after they’ve finished trading.”

England groans. “You can’t stay longer?”

“You know I can’t.” 

England nods - he does know, it just never gets less painful. They had been seeing more of each other recently, at the very least, as they both spent more time in the colonies as a way to escape regular duties. It was never enough, it would never be enough, but it was a start. 

“It’s beautiful here,” Spain says, looking at their surroundings. 

England shrugs. “It kind of… looks like every other forest.” It’s not like he’s unimpressed, it’s just that he’s gotten used to looking at very similar trees while the very similar days have stretched on. 

“Actually _look_ around us.”

He looks around to humor Spain and finds that his view of the forest has not changed. England looks back at Spain and raises an eyebrow to express his frustrations. Spain’s shoulders sag rather dramatically, and England prepares himself for a speech or something, and is instead met with Spain saying, “What do you see?”

“I don’t know - trees? Some flowers? What do you want me to say here?” 

“Exactly,” Spain says. 

England rolls his eyes. “Oh, please don’t tell me you’re going to wax poetic about the trees or something when you could be kissing me.”

“Fine, fine,” Spain says, capturing England’s lips in a kiss again. England’s hands travel to his hair, gently running them through the soft brown curls he hasn’t played with in so long. “Such a tease,” Spain whispers against his lips. 

“I missed playing with your hair.” England says. 

Spain sighs. “Oh, Arthur, if only we had more time.” 

And for all his hatred of the dregs of politics, England finds himself longing to be in a palace, lounging on a couch with Spain’s head in his lap. But he doesn’t say anything, just moves forward to kiss Spain, who smiles against his lips. 

“I wish we could stay here all day.” 

“I’d stay here forever.” 

“Of course you would, talking about the pretty trees and how nice the breeze feels on your skin, or whatever,” England says, though even he can’t tell if his tone is mocking or fond. Perhaps both. 

“Mm, probably.” He’s smiling. “And I’d have plenty of time to convince you of its beauty, too.” 

“Sure,” England says, more to humor him than anything else. 

If things were different, one of them might turn to the other and say something about the other being beautiful. But as things are, they don’t talk like that. That would be too dangerous, too vulnerable, in a world whose cruelty they have seen personally, have felt in the form of daggers against throats and the kind of heartache that makes you want to rip out your gut. Instead, they pretend neither of them have walls put up to guard them. They stand there, hands always touching each other somewhere - hands, face, waist, it doesn’t matter, the contact is welcome - kissing or swaying occasionally, enjoying the feeling of being together. 

“I need to get going,” Spain says, when the sun begins to make its way down. 

England nods, but he can’t help himself from feeling upset about it. He’s reluctant to separate from Spain, but he does, and they just stand there, looking at each other. 

“Until next time,” England says. 

Spain nods. “Until next time.” 

He bends down to pick one of the flowers by their feet, and England watches him curiously. But then Spain moves to tuck it behind his ear, which makes the tip of his ears go red and brings a smile to his face. England watches Spain until he turns into a speck in the distance. 

(He keeps the flower pressed between the pages of one of his books. He still has it.)

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr: lafayettesass  
> ((comments > kudos :> ))


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